“Mrs. Prince sits down to a lamb chop supper.” Brilliant but impossible, like most of Quinn’s ideas.

“We needed that two weeks ago, Quinn. Lamb could have eaten the lion but he tickled it in the tall grass.”

“An unnamed top aide makes a remark insinuating Mr. Lamb’s connections with the Elders of Zion.”

“Everyone knows Lamb’s an anti-Semite. Besides, we can’t afford to lose Palm Springs.”

“You ever been around lions? They stink. Why’d he crawl into that cage?”

“Nobody cares. He pulled the dang thing under his arm and noogied it like his little brother. In the videos you can hear it purring. Our candidate won’t even kiss babies.”

“Well have to take the hit. We have nothing to swing back with.”

“We can’t just take the hit. He’s fulfilled prophecy.”

The room seems to darken. Everyone inhales.

“Quinn’s right. We need an image. We can’t top him, but we can draw some focus. There’s something we can use, we just have to find it.”

Nobody speaks. Quinn casts around smugly.

“Unless you’ve got us a picture, Quinn, lower your damn eyebrows.”

From the wall, an intern coughs once, then coughs again more zealously.

“…Tessa?”

“I’m sorry, Hugh – ”

“Shut up and talk, I’m about to fire everybody on retainer and give you their jobs. What is it?”

” – it’s just that I was reading Mrs. Prince’s memoirs again – ”

Quinn snorts.

” – and she – I’m sorry, this is so nothing – ”

“Ms. Bollaert if you apologize again I will ruin you, I will throw you out and tell everyone you are a spy for Mr. Lamb’s campaign – ”

” – Lynette’s favorite subject in high school was botany – ”

“Plants, Ms. Bollaert?”

“Plants, Quinn. Tessa?”

” – she spent all her time in the greenhouse – ”

“Global warming? Briliant. Hugh, if you let every intern with a cold talk in strategy meetings – ”

“Quinn, I’m sending you ahead to Ohio. I want pictures of farmer’s wives at bowling alleys holding signs for Lynette Prince. Right now. Pack. Go. Tess?”

” – she cultivated – flowers, orchids, irises – ”

” – Lilies.”

“Lilies, sir.”

“Lilies.”

Hugh hears the triumphant strains of Copland’s “Appalachian Suite.”

“Ms. Bollaert, your parents were American patriots, believers in the righteous destiny of mankind. No doubt your father mowed the summer grass short and raked autumn leaves, Tess?”

“He raised ferrets, Mr Langstrom.”

“Glorious American ferrets, Tessa. Always remember that. Call your mother and tell her you saved the most important primary campaign of the twenty-first century. Fly home this Sunday and take your parents to church.”

“We’re atheists, Mr. Langstrom.”

“Fly home this Sunday and take your godless parents to Disneyland.”

“Thank you, Hugh.”

“Quinn, your’re building a greenhouse. Call Joseph Anderson at the College of Interdisciplinary Life Sciences at Purdue, tell him he’s flying down here with his all of his Indian undergraduates. I want Mrs. Prince growing lilies by the weekend. We get the hippies back, we get academia — Lynette Prince gets the entire agriculture industrial complex. Mr. Lamb cavorts with mammals but ignores the roots of life on earth.”